Forbidden Christmas
by Garbage and City Lights
Summary: Christmas Eve in Gatlin. A snowstorm unleashes its fury on the countryside of Nebraska. And with a strange turn of events, an outlander stumbles into Gatlin. But maybe -- just maybe -- this Christmas will be different.
1. Let It Snow

--Well, I just recently got into the holiday spirit, so here it is: my first ever COTC Christmas fic! I know it's a bit early, but enjoy it now before Christmas gets _too _commercialized. ^_^ I appreciate any feedback whatsoever. Oh, yeah... I own Ashlee and her dad. Everyone else belongs to Stephen King. GOD, I love that man!--  
  
_Oh, the weather outside is frightful  
But the fire is so delightful  
And since we've no place to go  
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow  
  
_They'd been driving forever.  
  
Well, maybe she was exaggerating -- maybe it hadn't been _forever. _But surely somewhere close to that. When they'd first pulled out of the hotel's parking lot, the clock had read 5:20 p.m. and the passing cars had been somewhat scarce. Now the clock proclaimed that it was 8:47 p.m., and the traffic had lessened even more; there hadn't been another vehicle in sight for hours. Worst of all, it was _dark -- _not just dark, but a _smothering _darkness that choked everywhere but the two beams of headlights that cut into the night before them. Black as pitch, she'd heard somewhere before. Maybe Shakespeare. Either way, it was dark, they'd been driving for hours, and now it was starting to snow.  
  
Ashlee Crawford stared out the windshield dejectedly. The snow was flurrying past the headlights like a swarm of powdery insects, and for some reason that thought made her skin crawl. All the bugs were _supposed _to be dead; if they'd been here a few months earlier, the bugs would've been devouring the corn. But the corn was dead too. All that was left were stretches of bare, chopped fields littered with broken stalks and shredded husks. Everything seemed to be dead, Ashlee noted with some distaste. Including the conversation between her and her father.  
"How much longer, Frank?" she asked, twisting in her seat to look at him. Her father's profile was rigid against the window, his hands tight on the wheel. She was irritating him, and that fact made her smirk slightly.  
"Dad," he corrected thinly. "And I told you fifteen minutes ago. We left Omaha about 5:30, so we should be in Hemmingford by--"  
"No, Frank," Ashlee interrupted with a toss of her curly red ponytail. "We're supposed to be _in _Hemmingford already. An hour or so ago." He tightened his mouth a little bit.  
_"Dad."_  
"I _know _when we were _supposed _to be there," she went on, undaunted, "but what I'm asking is when we're actually going to _be _there." Frank pressed down a little on the gas pedal. It wasn't like they had to be worried about cops and radar guns.  
"I don't _know, _Ashlee," he snapped. "It got dark fast--"  
"Really?" she commented drily. Her father shot her a sharp look, and she closed her mouth with a smirk.  
"--and the snow's really gotten thicker in the past few minutes. The ground's already so cold, I wouldn't be surprised if two or three inches stuck." Ashlee propped her elbow up on the car door and glanced out the window again.  
"It's already sticking pretty good out there." She was referring to the stretch of barren cornfields, which already had a considerable layer of white powder sprinkled over it. With a sidelong glance at Frank, she added, "Go on, Dad. Pedal to the metal. There's no one out here to stop you, and we'll be in Hemmingford twice as fast."  
"No can do, Ash." He was already in a better mood. That was something about her father; everything passed quickly for him, especially when remembering something was involved. As long and hard as he would protest, Frank Crawford was a grade-A scatterbrain.  
"Why not?"  
"It's too dangerous," he said easily, and Ashlee had to repress a roll of the eyes. "It's really coming down now, see?" Indeed, the windshield wipers were having trouble keeping up with the constant barrage of snowflakes. "But if we _did _need to speed up," Frank said, tapping the dashboard with pride, "we'd be set to go in _this _baby. Four-wheel drive, the best in its class." The car was his pride and joy: a brand new '84 Pontiac Fiero. Silver. She had to admit, it wasn't bad looking -- the "new thing", everyone was calling it -- but Ashlee didn't care for it much. She'd take the old Camaro back in a flash.  
"Yeah, Frank," she said drily, and turned her attention back to the window. "It's a real cherry."  
"Isn't it?" he said fondly.  
"Sure. Look, can we stop for burgers soon or something? I'm _starved."_  
"Um..." Frank grimaced and glanced at the crumpled-up map on the floor. "I promise we'll be in Hemmingford soon, Ash. You'll just have to wait 'til then." He offered her a faint smile that she had to squint to make out in the darkness. "I think I've got some snacks in the glove compartment." Ashlee made a face, but popped open the compartment anyway.  
"Snacks," she muttered. "Right." A brief dig through the hole brought forth nothing; she tried again. "Frank, there's nothing in here! Are you sure you've got food?"  
"Well, sure," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Let me see--" He leaned over to dig through the glove compartment as well. The car began to swerve, and Ashlee shrieked in surprise.  
"Frank! Watch the road!"  
"Oop!" Her father snapped back to attention and straightened the car's path. After a moment, Frank grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Ash."  
"No problem," Ashlee mumbled, returning to her original search for food. "But one attempt on my life is all I'll tolerate. After one, I--" She pushed aside some old napkins from McDonald's that had smelled painfully like french fries and made a sound of frustration. "Dammit, Frank, there's _no food!"_  
"Watch your mouth, young lady," her father said sharply, and reached over to dissemble a gathering of receipts from JC Penney's. "Right there. How could you miss it?" Ashlee retrieved the object in question and couldn't repress a groan of disappointment.  
"Oh, _Frank, _I can't eat an old Slim Jim for dinner!"  
"Why not?" Frank raised his eyebrows in that, 'What's wrong with you?' fashion she'd come to know so well in the past couple of hours.  
"I'm 16 years old! I need grease and... and empty calories!" Ashlee began unwrapping it nonetheless.  
"It's not that bad."  
"Frank," she said, peeling back a layer of plastic from the unappetizing brown stick, "it's Christmas Eve. I should be somewhere warm, eating cookies and watching Christmas specials on TV. I'm not supposed to be gnawing on a rock hard Slim Jim in a metal box in The-Middle-Of-Nowhere, Nebraska!" She wondered briefly if that had been too harsh; Frank's face twitched a little, and Ashlee slumped down in slight guilt.  
"It's not _rock _hard," he murmured. She couldn't resist -- Ashlee rapped the Slim Jim sharply against the dashboard. The beef jerky didn't so much as bend. There was a few long moments of silence before Frank pursed his lips tightly, eyes not straying from the road. "Fine," he spat. "I'm sorry you're not warm and full and being spoon-fed holiday commercialization, but as soon as you get to Hemmingford, I'm sure your mother will take care of all that." Now Ashlee was the one looking stiff; he had no right to be talking about her like that.  
"At least she'll _care _about my Christmas Eve," she responded shortly. Frank's mouth tightened to a thin line.  
"Let's just not talk anymore, all right?"  
"Fine with me," Ashlee snapped, and turned her gaze back out to the wastelands that had once been cornfields. Outside, an inch and a half of snow had already gathered on the ground.  
  
_It doesn't show signs of stopping  
And I've brought along some corn for popping  
The lights are turned way down low  
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow  
  
_The Children were gathered in what used to be the house of the Chroner family.  
  
It was cold, cold enough to turn limbs numb and make skin burn with frostbite, but Amos had brought along some kindling wood and was trying to usher out a family of magpies from the chimney of the stone fireplace. The Children were huddled together for warmth until he lit a fire, some in wrapped up in thick handmade quilts and others merely rubbing their arms to generate circluation. The power had been cut some time ago -- had it been nearly three years already? -- so the older girls gathered candles and lit them all around the Chroners' old living room. It gave the place a slight glow of comfort, but only slight. Rachel and Isaac were in the kitchen.  
"They ask every year, Isaac," she was murmuring. He had his back turned to her so she couldn't see him shivering in his thin jacket.  
"I know they do."  
"And every year, you deny them their one request." Isaac glanced briefly over his shoulder, then back to the table that had once been used in his kitchen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It had long since been hacked apart for firewood; all that remained were a few legs and the metal brackets from the piece that slid in as an extension for dinnerparties and such.  
"It is a sin," Isaac said stiffly, and fought a rather violent shudder. "I will not allow sinning in times of such dire need."  
"Isaac, I know you're cold," Rachel said, a slight edge on her voice. "Stop trying to hide it, because I know you are. We're _all _cold, Isaac, and that's why we _need _to let a sin slip by." She crossed her arms over her chest in an effort to keep her own fading warmth close to her body. "Unless there's something to distract them, that's all they'll be able to think about: how cold they are. They're miserable, Isaac, and so am I." Rachel paused, then added gently, "Please, Isaac, it's Christmas Eve." He whirled, fists clenched at his sides. His small body shook with violent shivering brought on by the roaring wind and freezing snow.  
_"The Lord will not tolerate it!"_ Isaac cried, his voice rising to nearly a hysterical level. "He has told me He will not! Christmas is the birth of _Christ, _not _our _God! Do not ask again!"  
"Isaac, the Children," Rachel said, tone hushed.  
_"The Children must learn to tolerate the laws of He Who Walks Behind The Rows!" _ His body was shuddering hard, this time not only from the cold. Isaac stopped, squeezed his eyes shut, and finally managed to stop shaking. His voice dropped. "Go and tell them," he said quietly. "Tell them there will be no Christmas this year, as I have said in the years before." Rachel glared at him, but slowly nodded.  
"Yes," she whispered, and stalked back into the living room.  
  
Isaac rubbed at his arms to keep the circulation going. He had been trying to hide the fact that he was nearly freezing, but seeing as Rachel had noticed, he was now desperately hoping that Amos had started the fire. His eyes drifted towards the broken, dented oven in the kitchen's corner and found himself reluctantly remembering Christmas Eves passed. Remembering a time when the oven had been brand new, and _warm _to boot, with delicious smells wafting from it... smells of cookies and pies and turkey for the next day. The thought of them all -- mostly, the shortbread cookies his mother had baked -- made Isaac's mouth water. Oh, but he could still _taste _those damned cookies... warm and soft, scented faintly of the annise seeds his mother had used to prevent the undersides from burning. The back door to the kitchen slammed shut quite abruptly, and Isaac jumped, looking at the intruder and feeling as guilty as if he had been caught... well, with his hand in the cookie jar.  
"Malachai," he said, half relieved and half dismayed. "What's it like out there?"  
"Cold," the older boy responded bluntly, and shook his head hard, releasing a flurry of white snowflakes. They should've melted when he came inside, but Amos had yet to shoo the magpies out of the chimney and start a fire. "And snowy," Malachai added.  
"I see." Isaac wanted to make a face, but he managed to hold it back. "You've brought them?"  
"Yeah," Malachai said dully, gesturing behind him. It was a small group of children -- fifteen or sixteen, maybe -- all shivering violently and covered in a thin sheen of snow. The Barn Bunch, Isaac had heard Amos calling them one day.  
"Take them into the living room," he said firmly. Malachai ushered the group past Isaac and out of the kitchen; he took a quick head count out of sheer habit. Fifteen in all, they were all there. He could see Mordechai's fair hair bobbing above the rest as he took protective charge of the small pool of children, and little Micah's dark mop sliding along effortlessly. He wasn't so little anymore, Isaac noted. "Malachai," he said suddenly, and the older boy turned.  
"Yes, Isaac?"  
"Bring some firewood from around back." Anyone else would've complained, protesting that it was too _cold _to be getting firewood, but not Malachai. He either saw the logic of the situation -- the fact that getting more firewood would end being cold -- or was just eager to do some more physical labor. Isaac was betting heavily on the latter.  
"Yes, Isaac," Malachai said evenly, and disappeared out the door again. From the living room came a muffled cheer; Amos had finally started the fire, Isaac supposed. He paused as the smell of burning wood drifted through the door and into the kitchen. For one long, beautiful moment, it wasn't the crisp smell of night snow or charred firewood -- it was the savory scent of Christmas cookies, warm and comforting and familiar. Isaac swallowed back more saliva and closed his eyes briefly.  
"Forgive me, Lord," he said softly. "I do not mean to think of such sacrilege." With a start, he realized how cold he really was. Isaac rubbed at his arms vigorously. It was silly to be standing out here in the kitchen, dreaming of cookies. So silly, it was positively... sinful. He hurried into the living room to join the rest at the fire. Perhaps he'd get some feeling back in his toes.  



	2. Do You Hear What I Hear?

--I own Ashlee Crawford and her father, Frank. Everyone else is property of Stephen King.--_  
  
"Do you hear what I hear?"  
said the night wind to the little lamb  
"Do you see what I see  
Way up in the sky, little lamb?"  
Do you see what I see?  
A star, a star, dancing in the night  
With a tail as big as a kite  
With a tail as big as a kite  
  
_ Ashlee pressed the pre-set buttons on the dash boredly.  
"Apparently, music has yet to be discovered out here," she said moodily, giving a button a rather savage punch with her finger. "Nothing but static, static, stat--"  
_"ATONEMENT!" _bellowed a voice, and her father abruptly turned the radio off.  
"I hate radio preachers," he muttered.  
"Now there's something we can both agree on." Ashlee finally finished chewing the lump of Slim Jim in her mouth. She noticed with distaste that it had been her first bite.  
"All fire and brimstone," Frank said moodily. "Only salvation through money. It's just about the worst way someone can twist God." He raised his hand and absently switched gears. "Anyone who believes in those phony sermons needs more than salvation, they need a brain trans--" His words came to an abrupt stop as the headlights suddenly hit pure white; Frank slammed hard on the brakes and turned the steering wheel. The Fiero did a wild spin, sending the two of them flat against the back of their seats. Tires squealed, brakes screeched, and Ashlee screamed. There was a mighty _thunk _as the car hit something solid and finally stopped -- half-buried in the mound of snow that had caused the crash.  
  
A long moment of pure silence passed until Ashlee finally regained her lost breath and was able to talk.  
"What -- what was -- was it a --" Frank shook his head slowly. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.  
"No, not a person," he said shakily, reading the look on her face. "Just a snowbank. Blocking the road. I didn't see it in time." She paused, then let out a wry laugh.  
"Some four-wheel drive," Ashlee spat, twisting to look at her father.  
"Are you all right?" Frank was changing the subject rapidly.  
"I'm fine. Dad, can we stop talking and just pull out of this glacier? Please?" She groped on the floor of the car and finally found the stiff stick that was her dinner.  
"I don't see why you're so impatient to get to Hemmingford," her father said indignantly.  
"Maybe if I had been in Hemmingford when I was _supposed _to, I wouldn't _be _this impatient," Ashlee snapped. Frank pursed his lips for what seemed the hundredth time that night. He looked ready to say something, but chose not to; instead, he turned the key hard in the ignition. "I just want to enjoy what's left of my Christmas," she added sullenly. The lights on the dashboard glowed to life as Frank put the car in reverse.  
"I don't know how you expect me to get through this snowbank," he said coldly.  
"Drive around it!" Ashlee threw her hands in the air. "The car can take rough terrain! That's what it's _for, _Mr. Four-Wheel-Drive!" Her father darkened and began backing away from the hugely packed mound of snow.  
"Stop snapping at me," he growled. "I've had just about enough of--" Again, he stopped right in the middle of his sentence. The engine, which had been purring so nicely a moment ago, gave a feeble cough and fell silent. Ashlee sat there for a moment, unable to believe the situation.  
"You can't tell me we're out of gas," she asked incredulously. _"Please _don't tell me we're out of gas, Frank."  
"I thought I filled it up back in Omaha," he said, voice sheepish as he turned the key again with no result.  
"You didn't fill it up in Omaha!" Ashlee unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to her father. "The only reason you got out of the _car _in Omaha was to get a friggin' _double chili cheeseburger from Dairy Queen!"_  
"Don't yell at me, Ash!" he spat, giving the steering wheel a savage slap with the flat of his palms. "This isn't my fault!"  
"It's certainly not _my _fault!" she countered, and Frank glowered at her.  
"Nevermind. I've got a tank of gas in the back." For the first time since the trip had started, Ashlee brightened.  
"Oh -- oh, wonderful! Great planning, Dad!" This seemed to hearten her father. He opened the door of the Fiero and hopped out, hurrying to the trunk.  
"Sure! I never go anywhere without a spare can of gasoline!" Frank stamped his feet vigorously in an effort to regenerate circulation and popped the trunk open. "We'll just fill this baby up and -- _oh." _He hefted the can of gas only to find it was unusually light. Ashlee, who had twisted in her seat to watch the progress, frowned.  
"Oh, _Frank," _she said, half disappointed and half disbelieving.  
"I guess I didn't refill it last time," Frank said meekly, and slammed the trunk shut.  
"What are we going to do? I don't want to walk the rest of the way, it's frickin' freezing out there!" Ashlee's point was emphasized as her father slipped back into the car, letting in a flurry of snowflakes with him.  
"We can't do anything else," he said, shoulders slumped. "I highly doubt we're going to be able to hitchike. There's no one around here." Frank paused, then nodded firmly. "All right. Here's what we'll do. Ash, dig into your suitcase in the backseat and get out your heaviest clothing. Put on an extra pair of pants and another shirt if you need to. In fact, I recommend it." He pulled the keys out of the ignition and slipped them into his pocket. "Extra socks too. When you're done with that, put on your boots and coat and gloves and scarf. Just make sure you're bundled up good, we're making the rest of the trip on foot." Ashlee shook her head slowly.  
"You're not serious."  
"Deathly," Frank said, tone short. "Get into your extra clothes. Now. We're going to get Hemmingford before morning if it kills us."  
  
They had been walking in silence for nearly half an hour.  
"Frank, I'm _cold," _Ashlee complained. She had even been scolding herself a while ago, after having inspected her previous behavior; she'd _swore _to herself that she wasn't going to be such a smart-assed burden. That was, however, nearly 20 minutes before it felt like her fingers were going to fall off.  
"So am I, Ash," Frank responded. "We should be there soon though, I promise." It was difficult to hear him, and even more difficult to see where they were going -- the "flurry fit", as Frank had initially called it, was now a raging storm, and the two to three inches he'd predicted to stick had actually culminated to over half a foot. It was almost up to Ashlee's knees.  
"There's another sign," she shouted over the wind, trying to change the subject she herself had brought up. "Hemmingford, 6 miles, Gatlin 1-- but that last one said that Hemmingford was only 2 miles off!" Ashlee whirled and strained to see her father through the thick sheet of snow. "We're going the wrong way!"  
"Ash, it's getting worse out here!" Frank had stopped to briefly attempt cleaning his glasses, which was a lost cause, what with all the wind and snow. "We can't turn around and go six miles back that way. They'll find us frozen sometime next spring!" He paused, then added apologetically, "Look, let's just head to this Gatlin. It's only a mile off. We can stay there for the night--"  
"But Dad!" she exclaimed.  
"--and in the morning, I _promise _I'll get you to Hemmingford."  
_"Dad!" _she repeated.  
"Ashlee, we can't stay out here!" Frank hesitated, then smiled wryly. "Unless hypothermia is at the top of your Christmas list." Ashlee had stopped walking. She wanted to see her mother, she wanted to be with _her _on Christmas. Not this bumbling fool who'd forgotten gas every time he had the chance and couldn't see a snowbank five feet in front of him. But she also wanted to be somewhere warm.  
"Fine," she spat over the roar of the wind, and whirled, heading past the sign that proclaimed Gatlin was only a mile away.  
_  
_Her footsteps crunched not only snow, but dead cornstalks as well. The sound made Ashlee shiver. It was like... like _bones _cracking. Something about the place was giving her an eerie feeling.  
"Houses," Frank said suddenly. She looked up and saw he was right.  
"Hurry," she urged. He suddenly came to a stop.  
"Wait." Frank paused, then tilted his head slightly as if he were listening to something. "Did you hear that?"  
"Hear what?" Ashlee asked impatiently. Her legs had nearly gone numb by now, and she was in no mood to wait.  
_"That," _he said as if it explained everything, then listened hard again. "Don't you hear it?"  
"Hear _what?" _she repeated angrily. "All I hear is snow and wind! And I'm _cold! _There's houses right over there, I'm going!"  
"Ash, don't," Frank warned. "I _swear _I hear something, like there's someone out here with us--"  
"You're being paranoid." Ashlee stamped the ground a few times to assure that there _were _still legs in there, then sprinted ahead. The old man could catch up eventually.  
"Ash! Ash, _don't! Ashlee, come back!" _But the howling wind blocked out his voice as Ashlee's boots pounded the snow, drawing her closer to Gatlin and farther away from her father._  
__  
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy  
"Do you hear what I hear  
Ringing through the sky, shepherd boy?"  
Do you hear what I hear?  
A song, a song, high above the tree  
With a voice as big as the sea  
With a voice as big as the sea  
  
_Malachai burst in through the living room door.  
"Outlanders," he gasped. His sudden appearance had terrified some of the younger children; even Isaac reluctantly admitted to himself that he had been frightened as well. Malachai's large form had nearly broken down the door when he stumbled into the living room, his body and hair frosted with a thin sheen of snow. His face was flushed an ugly red from the cold, and his nostrils flared as they tried to take in more oxygen for his burning lungs. Truthfully, it was nothing short of having the Boogeyman explode into the living room.  
"Outlanders?" Isaac repeated doubtfully, getting to his feet as Rachel tried to comfort the little ones who'd begun to cry.  
"Outlanders!" Malachai confirmed breathlessly. Isaac's brows knitted; he'd been sitting by the fire for quite some time, and at last he'd gotten warm and comfortable. He'd even seriously considered nodding off for a little while.  
"Where?" Isaac asked in concern. Malachai struggled for breath, holding up a hand for a moment to recuperate. At last, he managed an answer that was more composed.  
"They've been on the border for a while, but they've finally entered Gatlin. They're on their way here. Towards the houses." The small crowd of children began to murmur to each other, the word moving through the room in a collective whisper.  
_"Outlanders."_  
"How many?" Isaac asked, not sure whether to be merely concerned or alarmed as well. Oh, certainly they'd had outlanders in Gatlin before... but it was always in the summer or autumn, when the weather was right for traveling. Not in this sort of weather.  
"Two." Malachai had finally caught his breath, and the unpleasant flush of cold was leaving his face. "A girl, and... a man." The whispers of the children fell into a sudden heavy hush. Isaac felt his muscles tighten.  
"A man?" he asked quietly. "You're certain?"  
"Yes," Malachai said, sounding quite firm. "A man. Isaac, they went straight through the cornfields." There was another silence that followed, this one shocked.  
"They stepped onto the holy ground?" Isaac whispered. Now _he _was startled as well -- _surely _this would mean a barren harvest for next year if they had defiled the sacred land. Malachai nodded shortly.  
"Ran right through it." Another long, uncomfortable pause. Isaac wrinkled his forehead in thought. He couldn't risk sending any of the Children out into the snow -- not in _this _storm -- but he certainly couldn't let the outlanders find them. And unless he wanted a tainted harvest next autumn...  
"Malachai," Isaac said softly, "you know what you must do. Can you go out in the snow again?" The response was startling; Malachai nodded vigorously, lips splitting into an ugly grin.  
"Oh yes. I can go -- I know what I must do." He whirled and clomped back out into the snow. Isaac saw the flash of silver blade just before the door slammed shut. He closed his eyes tightly. Of all the nights to be cursed with such a storm...  
"Outlanders," one of the Children whispered. Isaac glanced to the one who'd spoken and smiled thinly.  
"Not for long, my child," he said gently, placing a careful palm on the little girl's head. "Not for long."  
  
He could see his breath rise before him in white clouds. They were somewhat exciting, tonight's events. Sure, Malachai had taken care of other outlanders... but in such a storm! It made everything more challenging. Challenges he liked.  
"Who to go after first," he said under his breath, stopping to briefly hide behind one of the old houses. "The old man, or the girl?" Malachai paused and turned the knife slowly over in his palm. He was remembering some old tune, some song from long ago... the words were just slipping away from him. He decided to hum the melody instead. "The old man will be a snap," he said between a pause in his humming, then grinned and started off at a run. The snow was blinding, the wind deafening, and the cold numbing.  
  
Challenges he most definitely liked.  



	3. Jingle Bells

--It's kind of short, I know, but forgive me. It's a holiday, be glad I'm doing any writing at all. I own Ashlee and Frank Crawford. Everyone else is the plaything of Stephen King. What a lucky guy!--_  
  
Dashing through the snow  
In a one horse open sleigh  
O'er the fields we go  
Laughing all the way  
  
_Frank's voice had faded behind her quite a while ago. Ashlee didn't care; her arms were starting to go numb now, and if she stayed out in the snow much longer she was going to turn into a popsicle. Besides, the storm was beginning to be frightening.  
"What the hell?" she murmured to herself, her run slowing to a stop. Some time ago, it seemed that the snow had played an oh-so-amusing practical joke on her and moved the once close houses to another location. Now, with a glance around, it was confirmed -- she was back in what used to be a cornfield. Ashlee shuddered, not entirely from the cold. "I'll just turn around," she said softly, her voice drifting away to be lost in the roaring wind. "Frank can't be far behind me -- Frank!" She cupped her mittened hands around her mouth and bellowed into the snowy darkness. _"Frank! _Frank, I went the wrong way, turn around!" There was a long pause, and nothing answered her. Ashlee stamped the ground in growing anxiety. _"Dad!" _she shouted into the night. No answer. "Dammit. He must --" She glanced around nervously. "-- he must've gone the wrong way too. We probably got separated. Maybe he even found the houses, and now he's wondering where I am." Ashlee looked around wildly. Her voice hadn't completely assured her, even though it was supposed to. It always seemed to work for the heroines in horror movies. She stood in her spot for a moment, part of her hoping desperately that Frank would emerge from the torrents of blinding snow and rescue her. The other part was snapping that she should get her ass in gear and _find _those houses that had been so close. Her nose felt so cold she was sure it was going to fall off. "Just like Michael Jackson," Ashlee murmured to no one, and forced a laugh. Now that she thought of it, there weren't that many horror movie heroines that lived anyway. The part that wanted to get to the houses won the duel of common sense; she stomped her feet one more time and started off on her way. And that was when she saw it.  
  
Something huge and massive, towering over the now-dead cornfield. Made of stalks and husks, bound together with rope. A cross.  
"What?" Ashlee said under her breath, and swiveled her head to see it better. Most definitely a cross -- but what for? "A scarecrow," she assured herself firmly. "Not much use now, though. I sure don't see any crows." Another forced, stiff laugh. All right, she had shot the shit for long enough; Ashlee pivoted back around to start for the houses. Her father was probably waiting for her -- "Frank?" she called suddenly, startled. There was a figure where there hadn't been one a moment ago. It was tall and sturdily built, clutching something in its right hand. "Frank, is that you?" Ashlee tried again, not so surely this time. "Frank, I -- I got -- _lost --" _Her words stumbled and finally died in the snow. That figure wasn't her father. It was too well built, too strong-looking, too... what was the word she was looking for? Threatening? _"Frank?" _Ashlee whispered, squinting to see through the snow. The stranger that wasn't her father took a step closer, and she could hear him humming 'Jingle Bells'. "Who are you?" she shrieked suddenly, voice piercing the cold night air. The figure moved closer. Now she could see what it was holding. A long hunting knife, dark with something other than shadows. Little did Ashlee know that what stained the long, silver blade was the blood of Francis Kevin Crawford. All she knew was that something was _desperately _wrong. "Stay away from me!" Ashlee screeched at the humming stranger, then turned and ran blindly in the other direction.  
_"OUTLANDER!" _screamed the figure. It was only a matter of time before his feet pounded the snow and he took off after her.  
  
Ashlee's heart was thudding in her chest. The snow stung her cheeks and eyes, making it impossible for her to see where she was going. Her only coherent hope was that the storm would present the same unpleasantries to her opponent. She took a sudden left and nearly fell face-first into the snow. Her arms pinwheeled wildly, but Ashlee managed to keep her balance and only missed half a beat in her pace. She couldn't hear the thudding footsteps behind her anymore, yet she knew better than to slow down because of that. Ashlee had seen enough horror movies to know the moment you let your guard down was when the killer attacked.  
"Where the hell is Gatlin?" She paused, then took a right. "Only one mile away, my ass," she whispered fiercely, and abruptly ran face-first into a building. Pain exploded in front of her, followed by a thousand tiny bursts of light. _"Jesus!" _she shrieked, stumbling back and immediately regretting her loud noise. But _Christ, _her nose might've been broken, it hurt so badly! Ashlee touched her nose gingerly and whimpered. "Ow," she said tearfully. _"Shit."_  
"Something something... um... all the way..." She straightened immediately. There was the voice again, not humming now, but singing 'Jingle Bells'. It was absent and quiet, almost as if the voice's owner couldn't remember the words and didn't really care. There was something sinister about it. "Oh what fun... it is to... _um..."_  
"Shit!" Ashlee repeated under her breath, taking off in the other direction again. She could tell she was on a road now; the faint silhouettes of buildings lined up on either side of her, and her feet hit solid cement when they pounded past the snow. She was taking extra care to look out for more walls -- Ashlee had no idea that she had just collided full-on with the Gatlin Seed & Feed. It was only apparent that she hadn't reached the houses yet. The stores didn't have the look of houses, but the neighborhoods had to be _close._ She was considering a short break to catch her breath and regain her bearings when the soft singing drifted back into her ears.  
"Da da something something dum... _hey!" _Instead of stopping, Ashlee attempted a weird stumble-leap -- which in turn tangled her legs together, sending her flying into a huge mound of packed snow. She let out a strangled scream that was quickly muffled by a faceful of white powder. The cold was incredible; Ashlee jerked back sharply and struggled to get to her feet, but it was too late. The person with the knife was standing over her, and it appeared that he'd remembered all of the words.  
  
_Bells on bobtail ring  
Making spirits bright  
What fun it is to ride and sing  
A sleighing song tonight  
  
_'Jingle Bells', _that _was what it had been called. Malachai was strangely proud of himself. He'd sliced the old man, caught up with the girl, and remembered the name of the song. Quite a satisfactory day, if he did say so himself.  
"Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh," Malachai sang under his breath. He had no idea how a sleigh could be one horse or open, but that didn't matter. The song was fun to sing.  
"No--" she gasped through a mouthful of snow, but he seized her by the collar of her coat and yanked her to her feet. Pleads for mercy always pissed him off.  
"What are you doing in Gatlin, outlander?" Malachai growled. The girl opened her mouth to answer him and abruptly shut it when he slammed her hard against the brick wall of the hardware store. He could see in the dim light that she looked both startled and hurt. Her nose was bleeding too.  
"I'm lost," she began slowly, obviously waiting for another slam against the building. "My dad, his car, it's out of gas... we were just looking for help--" Her eyes flicked to the knife in his hand and immediately brightened with feverish terror. "Please don't kill me," the girl blurted. "Please don't, please don't--"  
"Shut up," Malachai said disgustedly, and gave her collar another hard yank. He lifted his knife to her throat, pressing the girl tightly back against the brick wall. Her eyes flicked to the blade at her neck, then squeezed closed.  
"I don't have any money, but if you're going to do it," she gasped, her chest hitching with the sudden onrush of frightened breath, "do it quickly, please. Don't make a game out of it." There was a distaste in her voice that made Malachai pause. He didn't think he'd ever heard anyone sound so... _dry _with a knife at their throat. He looked her over briefly; it was terribly dark, but he could just barely make out her face. Thin and pale -- not surprising, considering her situation -- with a spray of freckles spanning across her nose and lightly dotting her cheeks. Her hair was curly and a red a few shades darker than his, something obvious even in the low light he observed her in. Malachai's hand stayed frozen at her throat, not sure whether to make the move or not. The simple undertone to her voice -- a dry sarcasm that was oddly refreshing -- was conflicting his judgement to Isaac's orders.  
"How old are you?" Malachai asked abruptly.  
"What?" The girl's eyes popped open, still bright with terror but now confused as well.  
"I don't like repeating myself," he said through clenched teeth, inching the blade a little closer to her neck. She pressed herself flat against the wall in an effort to move her throat out of reach. It wasn't working very well.  
"No, I heard you," she said quickly. "I was just wondering why--"  
"It would be best if you didn't answer me with questions." His wrist tightened slightly. Yes, Malachai had a talent for getting answers from even the most difficult of subjects.  
"Sixteen," the girl blurted, feeling the slight tensing of muscle against her neck. "Sixteen, sixteen, I'm sixteen!" He nodded his approval and let his wrist relax. She loosened a little as well.  
"That's good," Malachai said easily. "The one with you, he wasn't sixteen." The girl's brow slowly furrowed.  
"No," she said slowly. "He wasn't."  
"He wasn't seventeen either." Malachai smiled at her, and the girl cringed slightly. "No, I don't think he was any younger than nineteen."  
"He was forty-two," she murmured.  
_"Ahh," _he said, as if it explained everything, and lowered the knife from her throat. "But you're not forty-two."  
"I'm sixteen," the girl said thinly.  
"You said that." Malachai gave her a cold look, reprimanding the sarcasm that had saved her life. "Isaac will want to meet you," he added. That was an outright lie; Isaac wouldn't want to meet her, Isaac would want her _dead. _Just as Malachai had wanted her dead, up until a few moments ago. But there was always a chance. Besides, the blood of those under the Age of Favor was supposed to be spilled as seldom as possible.  
"Isaac?" the girl echoed.  
"I don't like being quoted either." Malachai shot her a sharp glance, and she fell silent. That was a good sign -- she might be sarcastic, but she wasn't stupid. Against all his strongest instincts, he released her collar and stepped back. "Follow me." The girl hesitated.  
"Why should I?" Malachai frowned a little. Perhaps he'd spoken too soon.  
"Would you rather go back to me hunting you down like a deer?" She shook her head hard, sending red curls bouncing around her freckled face.  
"No. No. I'll follow you." He nodded, then found himself grinning crookedly.  
"This way." He began at a steady trot towards the direction of the houses. It didn't matter how bad the storm was; he knew his way around. Call it an instinct.  
"What did you do to my dad?" the girl asked suddenly, rising her voice to talk above the wind. He shot her a sidelong glance.  
"It would be best if you kept your mouth shut when we get to the House," Malachai said drily. "Isaac has ways of dealing with those who speak when they're not told to." She stopped abruptly, then hurried to catch up.  
"What kind of ways?" she mumbled, and her words were almost lost in the screaming storm. He smiled slightly.  
"He has me cut out their tongue," Malachai quipped pleasantly.  
  
The girl snapped her mouth shut and was silent the rest of the way. 


End file.
